Better Angels
by Annie Newton
Summary: Abraham Lincoln is now the very thing he dedicated his life to destroying. Henry Sturges warns of dark times ahead. As Abe begins training for a new war, can he find a reason to live?
1. Chapter 1

"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature." - Abraham Lincoln, March 4, 1861

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Abraham Lincoln rose from death in the early morning hours of Monday, May 8, 1865.

It had not been an easy rebirth. Over three weeks had passed since his assassination, nearly the longest amount of time that any vampire had ever attempted to reverse. The former president had also been chemically embalmed, a modern scientific procedure, the effects of which were quite unknown to the vampire community. Considering the level of trauma sustained by the body in the hours after being shot, it was a real possibility that this most intimate of processes would not work.

But Henry Sturges had to try.

The changes were small, at first. A twitch here, a spasm there as his limbs loosened from the grip of death by the new poison of life running freely within his veins. Then the sickness came, as it always did. The last, violent throes of living flesh giving way to dead. Their function no longer necessary for his continued survival, his organs purged themselves of their human waste. Stomach, intestines, bladder and bowls. Tissue mended and bone regrew. The enamel of his teeth elongated into fangs, his nails calcified into claws. Black pupils blew wide and blue veins throbbed beneath cold, gray skin.

There was very little to be done to help a newly-made through the transition from death to life. The change was a terrible, almost spiritual procedure that left the born-again virtually catatonic, unaware of and inaccessible to the outside world. Platonic comfort was all that could be offered, to bear silent witness to days spent writhing in agony and provide a physical anchor to nights spent crying out in terror.

Even so, Henry held onto Abe through it all. Through every muscle tremor and through every anxious shout. He embraced Abe, soothing the pain and quieting the cries to the best of his ability. For forty years, Henry had never once allowed his friend to face the darkness alone. He wasn't about to start now.

As dawn broke on the morning of the third day, Abe opened his eyes. Finally, his gaze came to rest upon the young man seated beside him. Anguish overtook his features as comprehension flared.

"Henry," he said through vocal cords not yet ready to speak. "What have you done?"

* * *

Abraham Lincoln died on Saturday, April 15, 1865 at approximately 7:22 a.m. Hours before his final breath, the plans to protect and preserve his body had already been put into motion. Word of the attack upon the president spread like wildfire across Washington, reaching the ears of the Trinity, who as it turned out, were never very far from their former charge, despite their banishment from the White House. They surrounded the Peterson home, and much like the crowds that were braving the rain that cold spring morning, they waited for the announcement that was sure to come.

And come it did. There were many emotions suffered by the people of the capitol that day. Stunned grief soon turned to wailing sobs as men and women, soldiers and civilians, whites and coloreds mourned for their Father Abraham. The jubilee displayed just days before with the Northern victory now appeared as some cruel joke.

Sorrow then became anger. It overtook the nation like a wave. The spirit of vengeance rode fast and hot through the blood of all unionists and justice came swiftly to the South. Few vampires remained in the lower states, but those who were foolish enough to stay now found themselves trapped between a Northern army ready for retribution and a southern population desperate to show their fidelity to the victors. It was a bloodbath; a slaughter after the cannons of war had at long last fallen silent.

The Union was more than pleased. In life, Abraham Lincoln had won the war against the vampire oppressors and in death, he had ensured that the American people would never again allow themselves to be subject to the whims of the dead. Their orders were to stand down, to leave the nation in the throes of the anguished populace.

But the Trinity were not commanded by the Union.

As the autopsy on America's first slain President was underway within a guest room on the upper floor of the White House, Henry Sturges began the most important hunt of his existence. While he pursued the vampire named Booth, Henry entrusted Abe's mortal remains to his contacts. Many of the doctors who attended to Abe's corpse were Union sympathizers, well aware of what Abe had accomplished for the wounded nation. Adhering to the Trinity's explicit instructions, the surgeons and embalmers treated the body with absolute reverence, taking care to mend as much of the physical damage as was humanly possible.

Abe was never left unattended. All throughout the White House services and then through the cross-country funeral processions that spanned thirteen days and 1,664 miles, Abe's Trinity stood watch over the body of the man whose life they had once been held responsible for. Whether beside the coffin as it lay within the funeral car of the Lincoln Special or flanked around the open casket as it sat atop an ornate catafalque, the Trinity sheltered the body from any further harm, preserving it according to Henry's orders.

On Thursday, May 4, 1865, Abe's final service was held at Oak Ridge Cemetery in Springfield, Illinois. After the ceremony was over, after the sun had set, after the crowds had dispersed, Henry stood before the closed gates of the receiving vault, standing guard over his friend of forty years. Standing guard over the man who'd saved a nation from enslavement and driven darkness back into the shadows.

_I am a foe to tyrants, and my country's friend._

Images came to Henry, memories of standing over Abe as a boy, pulling him from the clutches of death after his first ill-fated hunt. Standing in the woods outside New Salem, Illinois, trying to convince a young man who'd just lost his first love that the future held great things for him. In the White House, the last time Henry had seen Abe, when the two of them had been locked in battle…

_Most men have no purpose but to exist, Abraham; to pass quietly through history as minor characters upon a stage they cannot even see. To be the playthings of tyrants_.

He couldn't let it end this way. It was Abe's purpose to fight tyranny, and soon, there would be more tyrants to fight. Henry knew this; he foresaw it. The ripples of time calmed themselves and for just a moment, Henry could see that Abe's purpose was not yet completed. Not by far.

_I can see a man's purpose, Abraham. It is my gift. Your purpose is to fight tyranny… And mine is to see that you win._

Henry broke into the tomb just before sunrise. The Trinity helped him to lift the coffin out of its marble sarcophagus and together they maneuvered the ebony box onto a waiting carriage. Like many of the buildings and private homes in Springfield, the house on the corner of Eighth and Jackson Streets had been draped with black bunting, a symbol of the city's deep mourning for her favorite son.

But this house was different. A plaque beside the front door still read _A. Lincoln_. It was important for Abe to be somewhere familiar, to ease the shock that came with being pulled from eternal rest. It also had the added benefit of being sealed off for a period of official mourning – its shutters closed with heavy black drapes drawn inside. Darkness, privacy, and a sturdy bed were needed when becoming a vampire.

_Some men are just too interesting to die._

* * *

_AN: _

This story has lived for years in my brain-pan. It should pay rent, really. But I decided to write it now because of - what "appears" to be - a horrid plot point at the very beginning of Seth's official sequel, The Last American Vampire. As the book has not yet been released, it's very possible that the spoiler in the beginning few pages (which you can preview on Amazon) is in fact, not what really happens. It's possible. Regardless, Seth seems to have Henry go off by himself and experience the years after Abe's assassination alone.

This is not how I envision it.

My story will feature Abe and Henry side-by-side, living through time together.

As always, thank you Emma_Holt for being my beta 3


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He was born again. But not into the world outside.

The world of the inner welcomed him first. His brain remoistening with blood, one drop, one vessel at a time. _One cell, two cell, red cell, blue cell._ Synapses beginning to fire slowly, randomly, like the hammers of a typewriter striking a blank sheet of paper but spelling nonsense. Thoughts – _what a strange concept, "thoughts"_ – being pieced together, the images and feelings primitive cave paintings on the inside of his skull. Then a filmstrip of disjointed frames flashing before him – _what a strange concept, "him"_ – his mind gathering steam now, the fog of death lifting. Here, a dandelion in his six-year-old hand, his feet running across lush green grass. Here, the dirt hearth of a Kentucky cabin. Here, a candlelit book and the smell of bread cooling in the next room. A fleeting feeling of disconnected joy, then grief, then rage, coming and going at random as his brain emerged from its tomb. Each reanimated cell a speck of dirt being brushed off a long-buried fossil. The voices came next. Far-off words in some as yet foreign language. The cries of a child, echoing down a hallway. The moans of lovemaking.

Then, suddenly and unrelentingly, the nightmares. Horrific visions: the faces of his beloved children crying out as they burned away to ash. That ash swirling in a disembodied shaft of light as winged demons flew overhead, their skin so black that only their eyes and teeth showed. His son – _the name…why can't I remember his name?_ – reaching out for him, crying out as the impossible hands of the devil himself dragged him away to burn forever. The boy's face streaked with tears, Abe helpless to save him. And then the nightmares broke like a fever, and Abe could breathe again. It was as if God had tired of watching him gasp and flop and had dropped him back in the cool waters of the now.

On the third day, Abe rose again. He heard a different voice beyond the darkness of his closed eyelids. Unlike the screams that had accompanied his nightmares, this voice came to Abe by way of his ears. It was a familiar voice, speaking words that were also familiar, though Abe wasn't sure why. Nor was he certain what language the man was speaking, as those parts of the fossil had yet to be uncovered.

"Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it," said the voice. "He died as one that had been studied in his death, to throw away the dearest thing he owed, as 'twere a careless trifle…"

Abe's eyes opened, though there was no life behind them. He looked around the room – _that's what it's called…a room_ – as spare as a room could be. White walls. A fireplace a the foot of his large bed. A single, framed painting of a rosy-cheeked young boy hanging on the opposite wall. Yet as spare as the room was, there was also something vaguely familiar about it. A feeling of being home.

Abe noticed a shape to his right. A dark shape, hovering over him. A man, sitting in a chair beside his bed. There was something familiar about _him_, too. That face. That ghostly face framed by dark, shoulder-length hair.

The tiniest sliver of sunlight squeezed between the drawn curtains and fell on the wall above his head. Abe feared the light. He hated it. It blinded him. It burned him. He wanted it to go away, and it did. As if hearing his thoughts, the curtains were drawn shut, and the burning and blindness were gone.

Now, in the black pitch, Abe saw as never before. Every detail of the room revealed itself, as sharp as day, though drained of nearly all color. Every creak of the house was magnified by his ears. A mouse scurrying behind the walls became a horse galloping over cobblestones. The bristles of a broom sweeping a neighborhood sidewalk sounded like sheets of paper being torn and inch form his ear. And voices. Voices crashing ashore a hundred at a time, the result sounding quite like the jumbled din of an audience milling about in a theater lobby during intermis-

_A theater. I was in a theater._

There were other voices – strange voices that didn't pass his ears but were somehow heard just as clearly. Abe looked back to the man in the chair. With the sliver of sunlight gone, he was able to make out the features of the man's face. It was the same face that had greeted him in his twelfth year – the first time he had been spared from the comforting embrace of death. He knew because it was _exactly_ the same face. The face belonged to a man. The man who had steadied him when his body convulsed. Dried his skin when it ran with sweat. Who, now that Abe thought about it, had been right there, every time his fevered eyes had chanced to flitter open for a moment over the last days and nights. There was something familiar about it all. Lying here in a bed, with this man – the familiar man – by his side. Waking from a dream without end. They'd been here before, the two of them. _What is your name?_

And suddenly, like a ship enshrouded in fog catching the first faint sweep of the lighthouse beam, it came to him.

"Henry," said Abe. "What have you done?"

* * *

It had been a little over three years since they'd last been in each other's company, and they hadn't parted as friends.

Henry took a considerable time before answering. When he did, it was with a calm and clear voice, not wanting to agitate Abe any more than he already was.

"You were murdered," said Henry. "Assassinated, in Ford's Theater."

Abe was silent for a time.

"By whom?"

"A vampire named Booth."

"Mary?"

"Unharmed. Though quite stricken with grief, as you would imagine. The whole nation is in mourning, Abraham. Even the South."

_The South…the war…_

"Where is she?"

"In Washington, with your sons."

_My sons…Eddie…Willie…_

"Willie," said Abe. "The last time I saw you…we fought about Willie."

"Yes."

"They took him…they killed my boy."

"Yes."

Here was the book of Abe's life, it's pages filled with a jumble of random letters. With every passing second, the letters arranged themselves into words, the words into memories: The mother he'd buried. The sister, the two sons, and the lover he mourned. The vampires. The hunts. The nation. The end. The memories began to overwhelm him. Sorrows coming not as single spies, but in battalions – for all of it, every goddamned word of it was darkness. Loss.

Abe lay on the bed, staring at nothing in particular. Piecing it together.

"I heard a noise," he said after a long silence. "I felt a pain…a hot pain, radiating out from the back of my skull."

"You were shot."

"There was a struggle. Screaming. I heard Mary…heard her shouting. I tried to tell her not to worry, but my mouth wouldn't heed the command to speak, nor my eyelids the command to open. I felt myself floating through the darkness, being carried through some god-awful ruckus. And then…it was quiet again. The pain was still there, somewhere in the dark. But it was distant. I felt the cold prodding of instruments on my skin. Heard voices. Hushed voices. People coming and going; crying…but even these noises began to drift away, as if I was floating down a lazy river, and all the world was on the banks behind me. Wafting away, until there was only the beating of my own heart as it slowed, like a watch in need of winding. And after a time…"

Abe struggled to find the right words. There weren't any.

"After a time?" asked Henry.

"After a time, there was _no_ time."

Abe looked up and met Henry's eyes.

"Henry," he said, "what have you done?"

The question now struck Henry with its full weight. "I've broken a sacred vow," he said. "I've borrowed you back. Returned you to a nation that still needs your wisdom and your strength."

Abe shook his head. "You've undone everything. Whatever good I accomplished, whatever grief I suffered – all that is lost. It means nothing now."

"Abraham- "

"You've made me the very evil I devoted my life to fighting!"

"I've made you immortal, so that you and I might continue what we have begun."

"This isn't what I wanted, Henry… You have bestowed upon me an impossible burden."

"Yes, it's a burden. But I can help you master the bearing of it."

"To what end? Henry, what becomes of me now? You would have me undo all that I devoted myself to. You would have me be the very thing that took my mother! My boy! How can I look upon myself when I am all that I despise?"

"I can teach you how to make it tolerable. If you'll just listen to me-"

"Listen to you? And then what? Do you expect me to follow you into the darkness?"

"That's the only place for you now, Abraham."

Abe rose to his full height, his back strong and straight. His limbs lean and muscular. His eyes black and lifeless. His fangs, virgin and pristine, gleamed with the flickering firelight. The last time Henry had fought Abe, he'd been a living man. Powerful, yes. Trained, yes. But a living man nonetheless and therefore at a disadvantage. Now they were equals – if not in experience, then at least in strength.

Henry braced himself, sure that Abe was going to lunge and attack. "The hunger will come, Abraham. And when it does, you'll be as powerless to stop it as I am."

"By then," Abe snarled, "I'll be in hell."

Abe stared at Henry for a moment longer, then turned and ran across the room. Henry realized what he meant to do and screamed his name. Abe leveled his shoulders and met the drapes head-on, shattering the window behind them and crashing through into the harsh light. His skin reddened and blistered the moment the sun fell upon him, and Abe cried out with the agony of it as he began to fall.

Henry was there in an instant, reached out and grabbed at Abe, using his claws to find a hold when his hands came away with burned skin. He pulled Abe back, hauling him out of the sun and back into the soothing black of the bedroom. The Trinity appeared, yanking the curtains closed again as Henry practically flung Abe into the darkest corner, desperate to protect him from further harm.

He stood between Abe and the window, shielding him from the light as the Trinity blocked out as much of the blazing sun as they could. He bit down on his tongue, summoning blood within his mouth. It was a physical strain not to shout, not to lash out at Abe for his stupidly, for his selfishness.

Abe had collapsed against the wall, slid down its cold, cool surface to end up curled into a tight ball on the floor. Where the sun had touched him, only puckered, scalded flesh remained. Sensing the disappearance of the light, he lowered his arm from his eyes, and watched as the redness retreated at once. In moments, he was healed, his skin pale and whole once more.

"You would do well to accept your new circumstance, Abraham," Henry said, working hard to keep the growl out of his voice. "There is more good yet to be done in this world. There are black times ahead, even darker than before. This nation will need you. The Union will need you. If you cannot live for yourself, then live for your family. For Mary and for Robert and for Tad. Live for little Eddie and for poor Willie. Live for your angel mother, and remember what she asked of you with her dying breath."

"What have you done?" It was only a whisper now.

Seeing a hand mirror on the bedside table, Henry handed it to Abe. The changes that Henry had witnessed over the three torturous days now revealed themselves in the silvery echo of the glass. Age had retreated from Abe's face. Gone were the deep lines that a life of heartache and worry had carved over the years, like glaciers across a plain. Gone was the hunch his tall frame had taken on in its later days, and the gray of his beard. His body was trim and solid again. His shoulders square, his skin smooth. Decades of hardship and wear, erased in a relative instant.

But Henry knew what real hardships lay ahead. The hunger. The grief of his first kill. The loneliness of his first century in darkness. But he was in good company. Henry would be Abe's companion in grief. His mentor in killing. His light in the dark.

Abe stared at himself for a time before throwing the mirror against the far wall, shattering it.

"I have given you back your youth. Your strength. Take my word for it, Abraham, you will need it."

"You are the Devil, Henry. And you have forever damned me."

Henry had made to leave, but he now turned back to the huddled figure of the former president of the United States. He looked into the empty, black coals staring back at him, at the fangs that had yet to draw blood. He saw the monster within reflected back at him. For the first time, Henry's resolve wavered, and he questioned his decision.

"We all deserve Hell, Abraham. But some of us deserve it sooner than others. Remember that."

Henry ordered one of the Trinity to remain in the room with Abe at all times, to guard against any further suicide attempts

* * *

AN:

If this chapter seemed really, really good, it's because I stole about 95% of it from the first few pages of The Last American Vampire. I changed the ending of the chapter, of course, but most of it is Seth's words, not mine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Trinity stood watch over Abe, rotating every few hours so that he was never alone within the bedroom. Henry did not return, leaving the newly made vampire with only his thoughts for companionship. With memories that were now no more than ghosts.

When at last night fell, Abe was escorted down the hall by two of the Trinity to what had once been Mary's private chambers. The windows had been boarded shut, the bed had been made and on the dresser sat a single candle, a large basin of water, a razor and a fairly generous amount of shaving cream. The fireplace was lit, and the blaze threw dancing shadows upon the far walls.

Abe looked to the two vampires standing behind him, still as statues. "I imagine you would like me to shave?"

The taller one gave him the barest perception of a nod. His eyes were soft, reflecting the color of a summer rainstorm. Abe recognized him as the one who had primarily guarded his children, as the one who had been responsible for Willie on that one fateful day.

A growl came up from Abe's throat, sudden and savage. Immediately, the vampire's companion offered up his own threatening snarl, his cold, blue pupils turning black in an instant.

A strange, visceral feeling overtook Abe like a wave. It made his brain tingle, made his teeth vibrate and clench from the tension. It was a horrible sensation; it was a warning. He felt his chin lift, felt his head turn to the side. Too late did he realize that he had unwillingly exposed his neck. He had submitted, like a bitch rolling over for her hound. He despised himself for it.

With a smirk of victory from the one who had met his challenge, the two vampires left. Abe stared at the closed door. Though he was loath to admit it, Abe was oddly irritated by Henry's absence and wondered where he was, why he had disappeared and left him with these three vampire guards.

It was a sentiment that confounded him greatly. Because at the moment, there was no vampire that Abe had ever wanted to kill more than Henry Sturges.

Abe sat before the vanity, the candle flickering in the moving air. Though the light was dim, he could see the details of the room in perfect clarity, the colors alive and breathing in their vibrancy. Cautiously, he met his gaze within the mirror. Clear eyes registered the face of a young man, of perhaps five and twenty. He was a youth again, resembling the store clerk from New Salem and not at all the President of the United States. Not the wartime Commander in Chief of a nation in the midst of tearing herself apart. Not the aged and scarred hunter in the night whose name was whispered upon the lips of frightened vampires all across the southern states.

He looked at his reflection, turning his head this way and that. He opened his mouth, examined his teeth. They looked normal enough; human in both size and shape. He tried to make his fangs descend. Tried pulling his face into a snarl when nothing happened. He leaned forward, concentrating on his eyes, rolling and squinting and widening, attempting to make his pupils blow wide. All to no avail.

Abe sighed in frustration, unsure as to why he couldn't make himself change. There was something missing, something not quite right. The candle sputtered, choking on its own wax. Abe eyed it suspiciously, an idea forming. Slowly, he reached out a hand towards the fire, his fingers flirting with the flame.

The burn seared through him like a bullet. Abe howled, yanking back his arm. He cradled his injured hand against his chest, the skin smoldering, the air rent with the sickly sweet smell of scorched flesh. Where his pads had touched the fire only blackened bone remained. Horrified, he gaped as his skin regrew and mended itself, albeit a bit slower than before. In less than a full minute, Abe's hand became just like it had been.

…Except for the now interwoven lines of pulsating veins and the curved talons in place of his nails.

For the very first time, Abraham Lincoln looked upon his vampire self. He brought the claws up to his face, examining them with morbid curiosity. They were long – perhaps four inches from root to tip – and black as midnight. He touched one. It was cold and smooth as glass, but hard and unforgiving as iron, the point so sharp it drew a bead of blood from the scantest of pressure. They were ten daggers made of pure darkness. His eyes were a pair of large black marbles, shimmering coolly as they reflected the flame from the candle beside him. His face was patterned with dark veins threading past his temples, cording across his cheeks, continuing down below his jaw before running the length of his neck and vanishing beneath the collar of his shirt. His fangs—

His fangs…

Abe stared at his fangs, his face all but pressed against the silvery surface of the mirror. Long, thick at the gums before slowly tapering to fine points that edged inward ever so slightly at the ends. They were clean, as white as ivory and they glistened wetly from his saliva. He could feel them, feel through them as if they were two additional limbs of his body.

And these limbs _ached_.

There was a whisper, a distant beat of a drum echoing across a vast expanse of barren wasteland. It came calling to him like a siren of lore, beckoning, thudding through him with a dull urgency that made his virgin fangs throb with anticipation.

It was thunderclap that promised of blood.

He was aware of the people. Of the finely dressed ladies and their gentlemen companions strolling down the curb sightseeing, casting curious glances at the dark and shuttered home of the nation's late president. Of the mounted soldiers patrolling the night, their horses braying nervously in the darkness, the brass and the steel of their blue uniforms gleaming in the light of the moon. Of the children playing barefoot in the streets, their tiny feet smeared with dirt and dust from the muddy roads…

The children.

Abe bolted upright, clumsily knocking the chair over in his haste. He backed away from the dresser, the eyes that met his gaze within the mirror human once more. Human and wide with absolute terror. _The children…_ He had heard their heartbeats. He had sensed the new life coursing through their veins. So young and innocent and full of promise. So weak and helpless. So vulnerable.

And so… _Alluring_.

A quiver of horror crawled its way into his heart. It settled there, taking refuge in the silent and still organ, freezing his blood in place. If his stomach had still held food, Abe would have retched such was his revulsion.

Children…

_Oh, God_. Abe receded into the corner, as far away from the hollow warmth of the hungry flames as he could get. This was real. This was all real. This wasn't a dream, wasn't some terrible nightmare. _I'm a vampire_.

Abe swiped at a tickle crawling its way down his cheek. He looked at his fingers, surprised that they had come away dampened by salty tears. A desperate loneliness took root within him, deeper and darker and more keen than any other melancholy Abe had ever suffered before.

There in the dark, Abe sobbed. He sobbed for the nation, for the hundreds of thousands of souls who had been lost fighting in a war in which they knew not what for. He sobbed for little Eddie who had just barely begun to live, and for poor Willie who died in payment for his father's sins. He sobbed for Mary, for the misery she had been forced to endure alone in the wake of his death. And he sobbed for his angel mother, for the goodness in her, for the purity of her heart that Jack Barts had so callously taken from this world. Had taken from him.

But mostly, Abe sobbed for himself.

_I am a vampire._

* * *

**_Author's Note:_**

Forgive me for my absence. I went through a breakup that sapped a lot of energy out of me. I'm sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors, as this is not beta'd.

Also, I'm aware that Seth's vampires do not cry. I never liked that, always thought it was a silly rule. So I changed it :P

Next chapter we'll get some explanation as to where Henry is and we'll learn the names of the Trinity. Or at least one of their names.

And lastly... For stories, I like to select a theme song. This story's song is Breaking Benjamin's "Anthem of the Angels." You can listen to it here... watch?v=QB3pxBDZvf4


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